The Ant and the Grasshopper Rated M
by JesterCoyote
Summary: My first doing in here. I hope you like it and enjoy it. Main character in these series of stories is Gabriel Moore - Boston PD detective that runs not only into different characters that were displayed by William S. Maugham in "The Ant and the Grasshopper" but also into his own daily problems such as alcoholism and sadness. Will he solve the case before driving himself mad?
1. Chapter 1

_First case.__ The Ant and the Grasshopper. October 29th, 1:42 AM_

There wasn't much to say there. Guess the world is all into not being fair. Guess I'm not there to judge, just to find out who killed that poor bastard. George Ramsay. 42 years old, yet he looked quite much as if he was sixty. A hardworker is what he was, ain't nothing in this life to change that. Maybe except his death.

He wasn't willing to die, that's for sure. But when you look at his body hanged there on a lamp you realise that there isn't much in this world he could actually like and enjoy. He loved his family, he was as loyal to them as one man could be. But whether his family was as loyal... Guess I was soon to find out.

First things first, I never wanted to take on this case. So to say, any case. I'm your average lazy ass dude that sits by his desk somewhere in the corner, has his legs up on it and smokes Marlboro Gold not caring of rules such as "no smoking". Like that ever stopped me. I mean I can always see whether there is smoke detector up there or not - doesn't take a detective... Even if it would, I am a detective.

Funny thing. On my way there I saw a news report in one of those TV shops that you can oftenly see in movies but never find in real life. I was pretty surprised to see it, yet there was something of importance there. Tom Ramsay (probably not a coincidence) got loads of shit of money after a death of his wife. More than million dollars, boy can you believe that? I couldn't. Old rag died of old age and gave everything she had to a young guy who was feeding on her. But you couldn't help liking that guy I assume. Otherways you wouldn't be clouded with your own emotions. You'd see what bane this guy is, and I was quite much about to find out.

Anyhow chief called me and said there's an urgent case to deal with. Packed my things and went on. Saying "things" but actually I mean that rusty notepad alongside with a black gel pen. Love those. Don't know why, really. Can't say I am much of a writer, but there's just some stuff to be written, you know. Such as now I'm writing in this notepad.

Also with that I took car keys and a snub nose revolver. Probably won't need it, but who knows. Being a part of Boston PD kinda gives you a clue as to what is going to happen. No shooting, as long as there's noone with serious military experience there. Who knows what's going to happen, right? Making assumptions is the worst mistake a detective can make. And I ought not to make it for that matter.

A thing to know. When you're Gabriel Moore, you're notoriable and known. Doesn't matter why, doesn't matter how. Just a simple fact there is that they put on my shoulders. Now it takes a lot of work to make up for that little money they give. Being a hero is never easy I guess.

Rain shook me when I stepped out of the vehicle. By the way, that Plymouth Barracuda year 1974 is mine. My dad's actually, but I kinda got it after he passed away. Anyhow God's hard tears slapped my fedora hat upon my arrival to the vaste building that held deadman's flat in it's tough gloves. Though when I found out the story... I wondered whether there was a God.

George Ramsay looked old enough to be my dad, when in reality he could only be my older brother, as I am thirdty four now, and he as fourty two. "This one was a real hardworker. I always feel sad for people like those. I like them, but they just don't find their place in this world, you know." Said Julie Barnes. She's a coroner of some sort, but I can't say she was needed.

Looked pretty much like a suicide at first, but when you look at it from another angle... I spotted bruises on his face, and his neck was almost bleeding. No man would tie himself up that hard.

"Were there any sights of recent fights?" I asked, turning the body around. George Ramsay answered with some sort of a funny dance... Though he didn't have to use his arms and legs anymore, it's his head that moved the body. Just needed a light push, and now he circles all around almost as if he was alive... Creepy feeling.

"Yes. You think someone hanged him up though?" Couldn't say if that's so. At one point, if you look at it you may think it was a suicide, really. He had a poor life, and he might have come to understanding it today.

How do I know? Didn't need much info to find out. His flat wasn't big, yet he had a wife and two daughters. Hard to keep up with such family on your shoulders. Thanks to searching through his body with a fine tooth comb I've found the fact that came into my head right out of the blue.

"He's not wearing his wedding ring. It's weird because he has to. See that scar on his wedding finger? He was carrying it for all these lots of years of marriage. I bet he married when he was young, twenty or so. Pretty loyal man he was, almost never taking it out. "

"Thinking what I'm thinking?"

"The poor bastard George Ramsay, age: 42. Died recently after finding out his wife wasn't as honest in their marriage as he was. Probably got himself into a fight too... But these are just assumptions for now, we need to speak with her. What's her name again?"

"Helen Ramsay. She's waiting in the living room, crying all about as if she doesn't know."

"You think she knows?"

"It's always easier for a female to know if a female knows. She knows. She may be a good actress, but we're not in Hollywood. Doesn't work like that."

"Thank you, Julie. It was a very constructive feedback." I've got my body shaking to the outer area, the living room.

Turned out George's daughters were pretty mature at the moment. I was right after all - he got married at a young age of twenty four. One of the girls was 18 and the other one was 12.

Turned out the case is nowhere near over yet. How can we speak of any Divine Being if we witness things like those? Boy was I about to find out about a cruel justice system in this world.

Part 1 ends here.


	2. Chapter 2

As I was listening to tearful stories of love that came from George Ramsay's cheating wife I kinda realised that our life has always been based on lies. Because when you hear lies you start wondering whether people really do that because they are interested in yourself or maybe they just want to save their neck. Helen Ramsay wanted to save her neck.

As I said before, her children were pretty mature. For instance, when I asked Helen about the ring one of the girls turned to her mother, then looked at me. It was a younger one, aged 12. She understood that there was a certain family affair that might have made a final decision in George's life. Or death, if you want to be more exact. As for the older sister... I think she knew all along. Her head was turned down as she stared to the floor.

"Melinda, go play with Jane somewhere." Said Helen knowing her position in the family was shattered due to obvious expression of knowledge on the faces of both sisters. But they did get up and leave after all - maybe they were unwilling to hear the truth. Maybe they wanted to feel like they are still needed in this family. They'll probably move, but the question is - where to?

"You never answered the question, Helen." I made myself look as if I was pissed off. Sometimes it kinda helps to push someones temper thus far. She stopped crying for once and that was refreshing.

"Were you cheating on your husband?"

"Why, you think it would be normal if I didn't? You think I can be acused for not being loyal just because it's something christianity proclaims wrong? There is no God, detective. Tom Ramsay is the living proof for that. You wouldn't live with my husband without ever wanting to cheat on him. So I did, maybe. He found out soon after that, but it was a long time ago."

"You said... Tom Ramsay? I saw the news as I was passing down towards this place. Is he a relative?"

"Not just any relative... He is George's brother."

Boom. It was as if a bomb timer was set off straight into my head. A terrible headache came after, almost spitting into my face with creepy smile.

Tom Ramsay. Aged thirdty eight but looked as if he was thirdty at most. A man with no fear of future. It's not that he always had a plan, or that he could improvise. He just knew people and their place in this world. For such knowledge he was also granted with charisma... Though I can't say it was someone to like. Tom Ramsay could of been one of a kind if he didn't choose to live using other peoples money and lives.

"Have you ever met Tom Ramsay, detective?" The widow shook me out of my state of unconsciousness as I was thinking deep in my head.

You can't say that you don't know Tom Ramsay if you live in Boston. That guy was known for his absolute wrecked being. He lived for himself, which is good, but he lived at the cost of others. And it was bad. He was so good at evading taxes that for quite some time he was being tracked by FBI. And though they always kept finding him, some of his "friends" or even his family (which is hard to believe looking at how poor these apartments are, George must of payed everything he had) always kept paying for him. I wouldn't find an answer to a certain question of "why?" if not for a series of events that occured later on.

But that is for later on. I thanked the widow for her patience and asked for whereabouts of Tom Ramsay.

"I think he's either in Spain or in Italy now." Of course he would be. But his brothers death would probably bring him back. The guy has an alibi. But does Helen?

"What were you doing here before you saw the body?"

"Oh, I wasn't here. I was with... Friends"

Sure she wasn't. Red lipstick, make-up all over her face. Probably spent some time and money for it.

"Can these friends prove you were with them?" I asked, looking at her sideways.

"Y-yes they can... If it is needed." She answered with quite a bit of lying intended. She did have an alibi. But not friends. It was one of her countless boyfriends. She had to make a name of herself considering she was a gorgeus being of pure beauty. Seems like her beauty wasn't so pure after all.

I wondered if I was ever cheated on. Maybe I never really wanted to know that, or maybe I didn't care...

She wouldn't have time to cheat on me anyways.

After a hard working day of patrooling streets I came back only to find Abigail Spencer-Moore lying down on the floor in the bedroom murdered. She was pregnant and I was waiting for my son to come out of her... Guess some things aren't happening. I called the police only after inspecting the place myself, and though they told me to stay out of it... I found the murderer. I asked him what could possibly be a reason to kill a pregnant female... Turns out she was a fraud, selling art that is not worth the money paid. And for that she died. That didn't stop me from killing Edward Connors... But everytime I close my eyes I see Abigail's body. Something doesn't let me just go on even after having my justice... My vengeance served.

"I am sorry for your loss." I said, geting a firm grip on my brown trench coat and preparing to leave the place for good. Some questions will be asked to her later. I looked back and called on to my partner.

Someone I didn't mention from the very beginning. He was just like me, except quite much older. He was 48. He had this wagon of experience on his shoulders... An uneasy thing to be lifted. At least he had a wife. Can't say how loyal he was, but a guy certainly loved to have a drink. Couldn't blame him.

He lost his son in a terrible accident, so we got along in our duo of world's haters. Archiebald Brooks posessed british accent, classy looks and incredible skills in seeing smallest details, whereas I looked like an american anarchist. Yet if there were things we both could do well they would be hating the world, drinking (even though he liked some crappy drinks in there, whereas I took whiskey with ice) and doing detective work.

I was up for a drink to be honest, I'd gladly have one. Unfortunately there was still loads of work to do back in the department, so that was where we headed. After some paperwork we decided to head back to our homes. I dropped Archie off and then got back tomy own apartments.

Can't say they were any different from George's. Except no children's room here. I moved after what happened to Abigail, and now I lived in some shitty place. My bed was only made up because I slept on a sofa. It doesn't come up to that pretty often. I usually think of going to bed, but just can't. I drink loads of whiskey, then get on a sofa, turn on a TV and go asleep... Or I don't turn on a TV. That's the only thing that can change in my daily life, apart from all these murders of course.

Gotta find the one who did it. And though I'll have to question Helen Ramsay more on the matter, tomorrow I'll start with co-workers.

Usually detectives do all the work the moment they see the case, because the murderer can escape... But let's be honest about it - if he could escape, he would have escaped quite some time ago. The only thing that needs to be done for a detective is finding a name and bringing him to justice. And for that you don't need to run around when it's night time.

But you do need some healthyman's sleep... So I decided to start with it. Right after a fifth glass of whiskey and a throw-up in the bathroom.

Guess I was ready for bed.


End file.
